


033 "casual day"

by wheel_pen



Series: Iron Man AU [33]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fish out of Water, My Pepper is different, Pre-Iron Man, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is hard at work on his designs for once, and counting on his new assistant not to break his concentration. Finally he allows Pepper to bring him lunch and attempt to clean spilled ink from his pants. Obadiah barges in at just the wrong moment to spoil things. “This is one of those situations that looks really bad, but is in fact perfectly innocent.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	033 "casual day"

**Author's Note:**

> 1) My Pepper is very different from canon Pepper. Her personality/origin is very different; to separate her from canon Pepper I've given her a new last name and a different hair color.
> 
> 2) The bad words are censored. That's just how I do things.
> 
> 3) Stories are numbered in the order I wrote them, which isn't necessarily the order in which they occur. At some point I'll post a timeline.
> 
> I wrote this series after the first Iron Man movie came out. It's very AU but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play with these characters.

            After several minutes of intense, concentrated sketching, the flow of ideas began to ebb slightly and I became aware of someone else in the room. I glanced up, prepared to throw a fit at the interruption, and saw my assistant, Pepper, peering around the filing cabinets that separated the main part of my office from the design area, where I was currently working. My irritation subsided. Pepper had only been on the job for a few months, but she was already proving worlds better than any of my previous assistants, at least in terms of keeping my life running smoothly. And anticipating my needs—having been acknowledged and then ignored as I went back to the design board, Pepper would quietly withdraw and go back to work, solving whatever question she’d had on her own. I could completely forget about her, about the company, about the room I was in, and immerse myself totally in the machine I was sketching, translating the three-dimensional, full realized object in my brain into sketches that the Design guys might possibly be able to follow later. Well, probably I would still have to go down there and adjust their models and correct their schematics, because I _always_ had to, but at least the sketches would give them an idea of what I was going for.

            This was what I loved doing. I loved to think about a problem and figure out a solution to it, to look at the problem in a new way that no one else had thought of and, in a flash, invent a solution no one had thought possible. And then to invent myriad lesser solutions to _make_ it possible. I loved to see a robot, a machine, a vehicle in my head, in all its detail and beauty, and capture it on paper or in the computer so that in a few years or months or, h—l, with my lifestyle, in a few _days_ when I had forgotten it completely, I could look at a rendering of it and enjoy its beauty all over again. Of course, I never really _completely_ forgot; I remembered a lot of the details, actually, even years later, which was one reason why my drawings weren’t as detailed as the pictures in my head—I just needed to look at a rough sketch to bring up the finished product in my mind. But a rough sketch from me—or more likely, a dozen rough sketches of the same thing from different angles—still took time to produce, time that couldn’t be wasted with pointless questions or announcements by other people. When I was really into a design, other people ceased to exist, and I wanted them to stay that way.

            Pepper seemed to understand this, I didn’t know how. Well, I had warned her about it (among other things) right before I’d signed the papers officially hiring her, and my previous assistant had probably told her and my secretaries might have mentioned it to her, but that had not stopped other people from ignoring my wishes and interrupting me when I was working. Pepper was still new, really, so maybe eventually she would screw up or decide she knew better than me or that this time it really _was_ important enough (it never was). Actually, it was highly likely she _would_ eventually disappoint me in this regard. But so far she had been exceptional. Unlike certain other people I’d had to deal with, she didn’t seem to get upset about being ignored or dismissed without comment (some people are way too sensitive), and I wasn’t worried that in five minutes she’d be making my phone ring or my email ding with a message, as though a non-face-to-face interruption was somehow better. I trusted Pepper. At least in this regard. And until the inevitable letdown, whenever that might occur.

            Sometime later I felt I had mostly accomplished my goal of design and I began to come back to myself. The shadows on the high-rises outside my window had changed, so I knew several hours had passed. Also, I was absolutely starving.

            I pushed myself away from the design desk, flexing the fingers that had most recently been gripping a pencil and stretching the stiffness out of muscles that had been huddled over a piece of paper for too long. My walk to the huge desk in the ‘business’ part of my office was not my most graceful.

            I flipped the intercom switch. “Hey, Pepper?”

            “ _Yes, Mr. Stark?_ ” she answered immediately.

            “Order me some lunch, I’m famished. And make it quick.”

            “ _Yes, sir_.”

            Well, it was quick, alright. About five minutes later—just after I had fallen on my a-s trying to stretch out in this yoga pose I had seen on TV—there was a knock on the door and Pepper entered carrying a tray. She didn’t bat an eye at me sitting on the floor, but perhaps she didn’t think it unusual—Pepper was, I had quickly realized, a little weird.

            “Wow, very impressive, Pepper,” I complimented, getting to my feet again. I had fallen a bit hard and tried not to wince as I sat down at my desk to observe the provided meal. “You must’ve—“ I blinked as I looked over the food. Then a smile slowly spread across my face. “Pepper,” I asked in delight and wonder, “did you _make_ me lunch today?”

            She seemed pleased with herself as she hovered nearby. “Yes, I did, Mr. Stark.”

            Now, I’ve eaten in some of the fanciest restaurants in the world, sampling some of the most complex dishes. I was comfortable with that, I could do that generally without embarrassing myself. But at heart I enjoyed simpler things, like cheeseburgers and pizza and fried chicken. Or homemade sandwiches with a bowl of grapes (removed from the stem and no doubt individually scrubbed) and a snack bag of chips. Sometimes even _I_ got sick of greasy, processed takeout food, after all. I reached for a triangular half of the sandwich, handcrafted by Pepper.

            “Oh, Mr. Stark?” she cut in with uncertainty, and I stopped. “I wasn’t sure… Did you want me to cut the crusts off?”

            She seemed very earnest in this question. “No, thank you, Pepper, the crusts are fine,” I assured her. “What have we got here, anyway?”

            “This is a _sandwich_ ,” Pepper explained carefully, “a combination food item popular in many parts of the world. Generally it’s composed of a nutritious filling surrounded by two pieces of baked carbohydrate substance.”

            “Would that be _bread_?” I hazarded. At first I had thought Pepper had a bizarre sense of humor and an excellent deadpan. Later I had wondered if she thought me extraordinarily stupid. By this point, however, I had pretty much concluded that Pepper was, as mentioned previously, extremely weird. In a manner that was often highly entertaining, I might add. “So what sort of nutritious filling did you choose?” I asked, picking up the sandwich with some caution—I had seen some of the things Pepper ate and they weren’t pretty.

            “I combined a legume-based protein paste with a boiled sugar substrate containing a variety of vitamins and minerals,” she reported. “I believe together they should fulfill your—“

            “Oh, peanut butter and jelly,” I realized, recklessly taking a bite. “Well, thanks, Pepper. Appreciate it.” I proceeded to wolf down the food with alarming haste.

            “Here is your liquid meal component,” Pepper told me a moment later, setting a tall, frosty glass of… _milk_ down in front of me.

            I gave her a look, my goodwill lessening. “Pepper, I’m not drinking _milk_ ,” I informed her. “Go get me a soda. Or better yet, a whiskey.”

            “But milk is extremely nutritious,” Pepper protested.

            “I’m not _five_ , Pepper. I don’t drink milk.”

            She frowned at me. “You eat breakfast foods which involve milk,” she pointed out. “And you drink _milkshakes_.”

            “Pepper, what’s the obsession?” I asked shortly, my mouth sticky with peanut butter and jelly. I grabbed a few grapes since I apparently wasn’t going to get another drink soon. “I’m not drinking the d—n milk, so take it away.”

            She picked the glass up again but still seemed unhappy. “Mrs. Salyers described this meal to me as being both nutritionally sound and aesthetically appealing,” she commented in confusion.

            “Yeah, to her _grandchildren_ , maybe,” I shot back. “Next you’ll be feeding me chicken fingers and mac ‘n’ cheese shaped like dinosaurs.”

            “You’ve eaten those before,” she reminded me, with an unbecoming touch of coolness.

            “Yes, well… Could I get a soda, _please_ , before I choke to death?” At the moment Pepper was absolutely _not_ being my favorite assistant of all time.

            She took the glass of milk away, shaking her head as if trying to understand the complexities of my illogical behavior. She returned with a can of Coke. “This is _warm_ ,” I complained in disgust.

            “That’s how I drink mine, sir,” she explained.

            Like I cared. “Go get me some ice.” I gestured towards the sidebar, where I always kept some ice in the minifridge. “And grab the Jack Daniels while you’re over there.” Nothing like PB&J plus J&C to celebrate a hard four hours of work. Why, that was probably more work than I’d done all week, total. Pepper returned with the requested items and I mixed myself a drink. “Any for you, Ms. Smith?” I offered generously.

            “Okay,” she agreed, bringing over a second glass.

            I was mildly surprised but didn’t push my luck by questioning her. I had no problem sharing a drink with my lovely and delightful assistant. In fact I had invited her out for a drink on more than one occasion, but she had always declined. I was a bit conflicted over the matter, actually, because while Pepper was extremely attractive, she was also a very good assistant. And previous experience had told me that pursuing an attractive assistant usually meant she wasn’t going to be my assistant any longer— _especially_ if the pursuit ended the way I hoped. For some reason my first couple of attractive assistants had assumed me sleeping with them meant we were going to have some kind of—shudder— _romantic relationship_ afterwards. I blamed _Vogue_ and their ilk for filling women’s heads with these unrealistic ideas.

            But this still left me with a dilemma regarding Pepper. She was, as mentioned once or twice, very attractive, and also didn’t seem to possess those annoying characteristics that made many attractive women unappealing after long term exposure—like vanity, pettiness, jealousy, self-centeredness. Those were strictly _my_ purview and I wasn’t going to tolerate competition in them from an assistant who was, let’s face it, no more or less attractive than your average patron of an upscale tanning parlor. Pepper was instead clean, professional, drama-free, and focused on _me_ , if occasionally a little obsessive-compulsive and confused by seemingly simple concepts such as fake plants and valet parking. But really those little quirks kept her from being dull, which was probably the worst sin of all as far as my assistants went.

            So I didn’t want to lose her professional services, at least not right now. I held out some hope that she would be one of those rare jewels I had heard about but never actually seen, the ‘friend with benefits,’ or rather, the assistant with benefits—someone who could spend the occasional night without texting her mom the next morning to say we were getting married or some c—p like that. Some people seemed to find this attitude of mine appalling; but I think it’s actually very common and I was just one of the few men to be honest about it. (If you ever hear of any women who feel this way, too, please send them my way.) I never lied to any of my dates—okay, yes, I really _couldn’t_ hold my breath for that long, but that turned out okay in the end, no permanent brain damage, but I mean I never lied about anything _important_. I never said I loved them or even that I would see them the next night. Whatever assumptions they made, they made on their own.

            Is it any wonder I found it easier to deal with paid professionals sometimes?

            But back to Pepper. The curious thing about her—the _most_ curious thing, honestly—was that she didn’t seem to even _get_ what I was after. I would make an innuendo, and she would misinterpret it in some bizarre way or at least blink at me in confusion until I moved on. Rhodey thought the dumb-bunny thing was just an act, Pepper’s passive-aggressive way to get out of me hitting on her. Which would make me mad if it were true—I’d had other assistants who flat-out told me on Day One that they had no aspirations to sleep with me, they just wanted to do their job, and I respected that and didn’t try to push the issue. So that was all she had to do, not some kind of elaborate ruse that made me question her intelligence (or at least her origin on Planet Earth). But really, I didn’t feel like that was what was going on here, since Pepper tended to get a lot of things wrong that had absolutely nothing to do with sex. It was a widespread problem, in other words, not one specific to a single topic.

            This is what I was thinking about as I poured a Jack & Coke for Pepper and passed it to her across the desk. (I think very quickly, you understand, so it all fit in.) She sniffed at the concoction curiously, took a small sip, then proceeded to slurp it down thirstily. I tried not to look impressed. “Like those, huh?”

            “Yes, it seems to have a high sugar content,” she replied. Pepper had a huge sweet tooth. She had a whole mouth full of them, I think. My three secretaries used to bring in candy on their own to fill the little seasonal candy dishes lying around, but I started subsidizing them after seeing how much Pepper was consuming in a given week.

            “Well, get me another Coke and I’ll make you another one,” I offered, figuring two drinks was a good limit for my lovely but somewhat twiggy assistant.

            She complied and so did I. “That’s a very efficient source of calories,” Pepper observed as she finished her second drink. Her tone seemed to indicate this was a good thing.

            “Well, don’t let me catch you sneaking in here to snitch booze from me,” I warned her, half-seriously. “I’m gonna keep an eye on the levels in all my bottles.”

            “Oh, I wouldn’t do _that_ , sir,” she assured me.

            “Ever thought about calling me Tony, Pepper?” I asked her, holding out the bag of chips for her to share.

            “Only when you bring it up, Mr. Stark,” she answered politely, taking a chip. “Is your lunch fulfilling your nutritional needs? Do you require additional sustenance?”

            “No, thank you, Pepper, the tank has been sufficiently topped off,” I replied. “Oh, I guess you _could_ do something else for me,” I added, suddenly thinking. She became immediately attentive. “Oh, well, no, it’s not worth it, I’ll just throw it out when I get home,” I decided, waving my hand dismissively.

            “Sir?” she asked in confusion, which was somewhat justifiable this time.

            “Well, I just spilled some ink on my shirt when I was working, that’s all,” I explained. Yes, I had been sitting here this whole time in a form-fitting tank top that showed off my athletic physique quite well, and Pepper hadn’t given so much as a non-verbal indication that she thought this unusual.

            Although she _did_ have two drinks with me. Hmm.

            Pepper immediately headed for the design area, where I had hung my button-down on the edge of a table. My dad’s shirt sleeves were always ink-stained and he wore them with a certain amount of pride, a consequence of being an active creative force in his company. I preferred my shirts blindingly white with that slightly unnatural fluorescent glow from the phosphorus in the laundry detergent. But even my dad would have tossed aside a shirt with a gigantic splotch of ink across the sleeve—that wasn’t creativity, just clumsiness.

            “Was this the ink?” she asked, holding up a now half-empty bottle. I indicated yes. “I think I could probably get it out with an appropriate solvent…”

            “Don’t bother with the shirt,” I told her again. “I’ve got three dozen more just like it. The pants, though…” I was slightly regretful, as I quite liked this suit. “Maybe you can see what the dry cleaner can do,” I suggested. “But don’t let him use something that turns the ink lighter, because right now it’s black-on-black and still technically wearable.” It could be my Armani suit for lounging around the house eating pizza.

            Pepper came out with the ruined shirt draped over one arm. “You spilled ink on your pants, too, sir? Well, give them to me and I’ll see if I can wash them out.”

            I blinked at her. “You want me to give you my pants. Right now?”

            “Well, if I could get them clean and dry yet today, sir, you could wear them home,” she replied reasonably.

            I studied her for a moment. I didn’t have a problem taking off my pants for anyone. But I did like to make sure of _why_ I was doing it. “Pepper, are you coming on to me?”

            She looked confused. “Sir?”

            “It’s okay if you are, I’m all for it,” I assured her matter-of-factly. “Although the alcohol does complicate matters somewhat, as I’m sure your tolerance is less than mine…”

            “Sir, are you feeling alright?” she asked, persisting with the innocent routine.

            “I mean, let’s just be upfront about this, Pepper,” I continued, watching her reaction closely. “It’s a cute setup, but a little contorted, don’t you think, waiting for me to spill something on my pants? If you’re gonna try and jump me as soon as I get them off, that’s fine with me, but I don’t think we need the coy disguise.”

            Pepper stared at me as if she feared for my sanity. It was probably the same look I gave _her_ multiple times a week. And unfortunately, it seemed genuine. “Sir, do you not want me to wash your pants now?”

            Well, d—n. She seemed to be serious about her intent. “No, it’s okay, Pepper, you can wash them,” I decided, standing to remove my one remaining substantial piece of clothing. Let no one say Tony Stark possessed an unusual level of inhibition. Or any level, really.

            Pepper waited patiently while I emptied my pockets onto the desk (I didn’t trust her to think of that before soaking my cell phone and credit cards), kicked off my shoes, undid my belt. She didn’t look away, but she wasn’t really _watching_ , you know? ‘Weird’ was not a sufficient adjective to describe the situation. I might have been taking off nothing more interesting than a complicated overcoat.

            “Do you have a medical background, Pepper?” I asked her.

            “I don’t normally get sick, sir,” she responded, without really replying. Typical Pepper answer.

            “Well, here you go.” I handed her my pants.

            “Thank you, sir. Where was the spill?”

            “Around the left knee.”

            “Alright. I’ll just go see if I can get it out. Do you mind if I use your bathroom, sir?”

            The idea of Pepper washing out my clothes in the ladies’ room down the hall, or better yet the coffee room where all the catty PA’s gathered to gossip, was appealing to me. No doubt Pepper would happily explain the situation to anyone who asked, thus adding to my mystique throughout the company. But, Pepper probably wouldn’t be well-served by the incident… I didn’t care much about what people said behind her back—some people would start salacious rumors even if my assistant was a nun—but if they stopped taking her seriously on a professional level, that was a problem. So I let her use the bathroom attached to my office.

            This is how my life seemed to work sometimes. About two minutes later, while I was checking my email at my desk, there was a knock at the door. Then the door opened, unbidden, so I knew it could only be one of a handful of privileged people, and Obadiah slipped in, closing the door behind himself immediately. “Tony, where’s your—“ Then he looked around. He saw me sitting there in my tank top and dark red boxers (Pepper liked to match them to my tie each day). He saw the Jack Daniels bottle on the desk with two glasses next to it. He heard the water running in the bathroom. He drew what I suppose was the obvious conclusion. Although he didn’t have to get _such_ a huge smirk on his face.

            “This is one of those situations that looks really bad, but is in fact perfectly innocent,” I told him, before he could say anything.

            “You seem to find yourself in a lot of those,” Obadiah shot back dryly. “At least according to our PR department. Now is that your assistant in there”—he nodded towards the bathroom—“or is she out hailing a cab for a soon-to-be-transferred sales rep?”

            “Your brand of humor is not very good-natured,” I informed him frostily. “Pepper is merely cleaning my clothes for me. Because I spilled ink on them,” I added hastily. “Pepper!” I needed some back-up here against Obadiah’s skepticism.

            Pepper popped out of the bathroom. “I’m working on it, sir,” she assured me. “I think the pants will be alright, but I’m not certain about the shirts. If you had called me when the spill was fresh, I might have been able to accomplish more,” she added, slightly chiding.

            “See?” I told Obadiah smugly. “Perfectly innocent.”

            “And were you using the Jack Daniels to clean the ink stain?” Obadiah asked Pepper, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

            “I hadn’t thought of that, Mr. Stane,” she admitted. “The alcohol might indeed make a good—“ She paused suddenly, as if contemplating something very profound.

            “Pepper?” I prompted.

            “Stane, and stain,” she replied, with an abrupt clarity of understanding. “They sound alike, but they’re spelled differently.”

            “Very good, Pepper,” I told her cheerfully, because it seemed to irritate Obadiah. “You’ve discovered homophones.”

            “Oh, _homophones_ ,” she repeated, nodding. “I’m familiar with that term. The girl who lived across the hall in college was a homophone. They had an organization.”

            I said nothing, merely clamped down on my grin as Pepper cleared away the lunch dishes. Obadiah stared at us. “Are you gonna correct that?” he demanded. “I know she won’t listen to _me_.”

            “Correct what?” I asked flippantly. “You’re a homophone, Ob. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it. This is San Francisco, after all.”

            He rolled his eyes. “Too bad they don’t have advocacy groups for morons, Tony. You could be president of one.”

            I started to laugh, then noticed Pepper frowning at Obadiah. So I laughed more. “You had better get out of here before you really p—s Pepper off,” I decided, rising to show him to the door.

            “Uh, Tony—“

            “Did you want something, by the way?” it occurred to me to ask as I reached for the door. “Or did you just come in here to screw around?”

            “Tony—“

            I opened the door to my outer office before Obadiah could jump in and overrule me, which he often did and which I hated. And of course then I saw the visitors he’d brought—three men in expensive suits who were chatting with Joanna while they waited for me. And who immediately turned towards the door I had just opened to behold me in my tank top, red boxer shorts, and black socks.

            There was a moment of silence. Then I grinned and said, “D—n, I hope you guys aren’t the vice squad.”

            “Tony Stark, our CEO,” Obadiah announced, only a faint growl detectable in his tone. “Tony, these gentlemen are from Brillartec.” French company that supplied us with a number of plastic components we used in construction. “Just thought they’d drop by to say hi before going down to the shop.”

            “Well hi, nice to meet you,” I greeted cheerfully, shaking hands with each in turn. Not that I was too embarrassed anyway—lacking most of that shame component of my personality, you know—but I felt even better knowing they were French. I mean, these kind of situations probably happened all the time at their company. “So, do you guys have that concept of ‘Casual Fridays’?” I asked nonchalantly, leaning against the door frame.

            “It’s Thursday,” Obadiah hissed at me.

            “Casual Thursdays is what we do around here,” I continued smoothly, “you know, mix it up a little.”

            Just then Pepper joined us at the door. “Your pants should be clean now, Mr. Stark,” she reported helpfully, “though they’re still a little damp. Would you mind if I went to change clothes now, sir? I got some of that jelly on my skirt.”

            “Excellent idea, Pepper,” I agreed, “but first I’d like you to meet…” I introduced her to the guests so that they would now appear in her universe. Then I made a very witty joke about a word that ‘Stane’ sounded like in French, which the guests laughed heartily at. Obadiah just smiled cautiously, since he didn’t speak French. “Well, shall we go to the workshop?” I offered cheerfully, pushing away from the doorway. “Great place, you guys are gonna love it. Oh wait,” I paused, and Obadiah got this hopeful look in his eye like I wasn’t _really_ going to prance through the halls of the company headquarters in my underwear. Which just made me want to do it all the more. “They’ve got a dress code down in the shop, for safety purposes, you know. You guys don’t mind wearing hard hats, do you? No? Great, let’s go!” And we headed out the door.

* * *


End file.
